Scott Johnson | To Create...

When one day passes into the next,
a thin time,
when deepness of a new day
begins its passage,
I heard cicadas,
a thousand voices,
sing Your name.

It filled the room with such reverence,
such verve,
I wondered
how one could possibly sleep
through the sonance.

Why didn’t the neighborhood notice,
throw open their windows,
dance outside their doors
in nightgowns
swirling and twirling
in adoration.

Chanting your thousand names
in late August,
early morn
I gave thanks for their prayer,
their praise
in honor of us,
who,
in our mortal lives,
sleep through thin times
under starlight and cicada psalm.

Author’s Note:

I walked into the bedroom very late at night, early morning, a few days ago. It was cool, so the fan was not on. The sound of the cicadas was so loud, I could hardly believe my husband was sleeping right through it.

I immediately thought of the thousand names of the Divine. I thought of the new Celtic spirituality I am coming to understand and embrace. I thought how lucky I was to be alive.

Thank you to my Celtic friends, Scott Jenkins, Macushla, Kathleen E. Moore, and so many others. I am on a new journey and every day brings delight and blessing and gratitude that you are in my life.

Orbis non sufficit

I walk the long white hallway
shades of white
reminding me of the pristine
the virgin
before the world hangs its art on her
nail pricks and wires balancing canvasses
The promise
The work of art will be destroyed
if the property is altered

Shades of white
immaculate skin on rag paper
bed drawings held by hostage eyes
beyond the Gate’s Factory window

Orbis, the world

Continental drift
a platform of relationships
meeting the woman on the edge
a man waving
living history erasing the tangible object

Non, not

The fields will be very dear to us
despite duplicitous monarchs
rebel assassins
their corrupt mercenaries
teardrops marking their sins

Sufficit, enough

I walk two views
one too close
to know where I am going
the other too far
that I may never arrive
and yet
both views lead me to the edge
the boat moored across the canal
I turn back

The world is not enough

.
.
.

Author’s Memo:

Our writing group visited the Museum of Contemporary Art in Denver. In the summer we go on “field trips” leaving our local Panera’s group table empty for the taking.

Once inside, we wandered the museum taking notes and meeting up forty-five minutes later in the Café. After sharing our thoughts about what we saw, we wrote for half an hour and shared again.

My poem combines words from the art itself and descriptions of the exhibits – Continental Drift, Frohawk Two Feathers, and Tercerunquinto; overheard phrases from a tour guide with a group of children; and my impressions and images.

It was a lovely outing with different voices filling the air inspired by some great exhibits. Thank you MCA for being an exciting presence in the Denver art scene.